God Save the Queen, and the Prince, and Camilla, and British Democracy.

I've never met a protest I don't like (obviously I don't actually mean this), but whoa there Brits, hold your horses. What am I talking about? The English have broken a long streak about getting involved in politics only as regards animal rights to attack a car holding Prince Charles and his wife, Camilla Parker-Bowles (nb, the NYT just called her Camilla, probably because they don't know what her new last name is since she married the Prince of England) because the government just voted to raise the maximum university tuition from something like £3300 to £9000, or about $16,000. So substantively, I agree with the protesters - almost tripling tuition is a bad move, even when making more generous loan repayment packages (Brits only have to pay back their loans when they make more than a certain income, and only up to a certain percentage of that income). Strategywise, though, I am less than impressed. Your democratically elected government chose to raise fees for higher education - this is a change of degree, not of ideology. I am not sure exactly which policy decisions in a democratic (or whatever they have in Great Britain) government calls for violent protest, but surely raising fees does not qualify? They should reread the Magna Carta or something.

Over even greater concern is the choice of targets. The New York Times article doesn't mention it, but it is possible that the protesters didn't know who was in the car. This view is supported by the fact that the protesters yelled "Tory scum!' while throwing rocks and paint at the car, and apparently ripping the door off the Jag (!) following behind with security. It seems to be terribly bizarre that a mob would attack a car which coincidentally holds the second in line to the throne. The other, and perhaps more likely seeming option is that of course they knew who was in the car. Why then, anyone would accuse Prince Charles of being Tory scum is beyond me. The Tory party is tied to 'old money,' and what is left of the aristocracy in the British mind, and also in reality. The royal family, though, takes care to stay out of politics and policy. The monarchy itself is a controversial subject in Great Britain, but that doesn't seem to have been the subject of the protests, unless it was and I just don't get it.

The problem boils down to: it is probably best to target policy makers in protesters like this. Either the protesters targeted the Prince, who doesn't vote, never mind about make policy, or they were targeting a random person in a nice car. I can't believe how reactionary I sound.

Tony, Tony Tony: A Talking To

So a few months ago Tony Blair said this:

Shalom. It's a very great pleasure to be with you at this wonderful university here in Herzeliya... professors of the Lauder school of Government, Minister of Public Diplomacy, sounds a challenge, MKs (members of parliament), and of course my friend Tzipi Livni (head of Kadima, and leader of the opposition in Israel) , its a great pleasure to be here with you also, we've shared many platforms together, when you were a foreign minister and I have always admired enormously the intelligence and elegance and good effect  with which you spoke at those meetings and it is a pleasure to be here with you and also to say that she was always very gracious to me since the very first time she met me she informed me that I think in the old days that the British had arrested her father? Arrested her father and her mother right? So we didn't discriminate, so that's a positive, lets take a positive from that one. One of the problems in being a former British Prime Minister is that you find that anywhere you go in the world that there is a problem, at some point in the conversation its revealed as Britains' fault, which is a great unifying role to play in international diplomacy.

I know that, because I watched this:



The content of which is the topic for another blog.

But Tony, Tony.
Guess what? Noone cares that the fact that the British have either fought in a war against, or arrested EVERYONE IN THE WORLD'S grandparents makes your life as a retiree somewhat awkward. I should maybe make less of a sweeping generalization - replace grandparent with ancestor. There you go. The point is that your beloved country drew the borders that later become problems, split up, or made more important ethnic groups who now hate each other, took natural resources while building infrastructure only where British settlers lived, and now you are really very self righteous about your place as the most civilized nation in the world.

Just because they (we!) drink tea and play cricket, doesn't mean they're thankful.

So yes, its very funny and awkward for you that the British arrested Tzipi Livni's parents. Hilarious.

Define Cool:

There Were Ten German Bombers...

I was watching this GENIUS video:



Which led to watching this video:

The full lyrics are:
There were ten German bombers in the air,
There were ten German bombers in the air,
There were ten German bombers, Ten German bombers,
There were ten German bombers in the air,

And the RAF from England shot one down,
And the RAF from England shot one down,
And the RAF from England, The RAF from England,
And the RAF from England shot one down,

There were nine German bombers in the air...


As an American, I find this CRAZY! Can anyone imagine Braves fans singing Dixie at a Braves Mets game? I don't think most Brits, especially those born after the war, feel any animosity towards Germans - I think this illustrates the fact that football fans are a pretty violent and vile (Not meant in a necessarily pejorative way. At least they care) bunch.

Specific Quintiles of the Upper-Lower-Upper Class

Remember what I said about social class in Great Britain being confusing? The New York Times agrees. Their headline - "Posh, Posher, Poshest" even seems to have taken a hint from my own. They might put it better, and have, like, supporting anecdotes and witty quotes and stuff, but really out point was the same - understanding the complexities of British social class is kind of beyond any well meaning American.

On Poshness

Ha ha ha, hee hee, so a Tory MP exposed his blue blooded roots by explaining that he wont travel coach in the perfectly adequate for everyone else British railway because coach class passengers are "a totally different type of people." This statement is especially painful because the Tories have had to labor (haha) to rid themselves of the stereotype of being wealthy blue bloods with very little understanding or appreciation for what it means to be working, or even middle class.

English people of the non Tory variety have told me that the Tories are a complete embarrassment and anachronism, that nobody takes them seriously, and that this is the last generation of Tory MPs. I know quite a few Brits, lived among them for a while, and the only vocal Tory I knew was from the North (in general, this means Not Posh) and gay. However, the truth is that Tory's keep winning elections, and as far as I know, don't rely on a constituency of Barons and Dukes.

This whole concept of class in England (I'm gonna say England because things might be different in Scotland and Wales) is so confusing to me, maybe in the same way that concepts of race and ethnicity in, say, the US or Brazil might be confusing to a Mongolian. This isn't to say that there is not such thing as class in the US (or race in Mongolia) but just that it seems to still be a hot topic there, if not really discussed. Wealth, accent, education, and geography all seem to play into class there, as well as ethnicity and maybe 'blue bloodedness,' but any one of, and perhaps even all of these things could point one way in the poshness-o-meter, and you could still reside firmly on the other end. So do blue collar Brits in the north identify with their blue blooded cousins and vote Tory? Is it just all of the wealthy bankers in London? How many people in England would agree the coach class trains are  unacceptably vulgar? It is all a mystery to me.

Just Toss the Lip Gloss into that Basket of Goods

So apparently the UK has added lip gloss to it's basket of goods used to determine the rate of inflation. Some of these 180,000 goods, like gas, are there because they are important categories of spending in their own right, while others, like spades, are important because they are proxies for a larger group (garden tools).

I don't know why I find this news so amusing, but I would like to know (in case the relevant British economists are reading this, which I'm sure they are) that lip gloss takes up a large part of my personal grooming budget, and should be used as a proxy for said category.

Lastly, besides the dried potatoes thing, the list of things that came in and out in the 70's perfectly reflects my own consumption habits in the 80's. As a little kid. I don't know what that means.

British Mating Habits Revisited

I win! Someone at the New York Times is clearly reading my blog and felt it was time to share with the world the mind-bending and twisted Mating Habits of the British, as seen in the personal ads of the London Review of Books. I said it first and said it best though: the British are awkward freaks and that's why we love them - from a distance.

To Be Or Not To Be

Pretty brilliant. I'm sure this demonstrates something important in developmental psychology about how kids hear and understand inflection before they really understand vocabulary.

To Scotland!

Obviously alcoholism is Serious and Not Funny, but the idea of unruly Scots drinking sweet caffeinated whine is funny to me! It's pretty impressive that Scotland is only 8th on the world list.

Yet Another Obsession

As I make my someone random and sometimes esoteric obsessions public on the internet, it became clear to me that eventually I'd have to unveil my more embarrassing obsessions. Here we go then: the British Royal Family. I'd like to present you with Prince Harry, being the first among many awkward British men, in the way only a Windsor could.

British Mating Rituals

The November issue of the London Review of Books has been in my bathroom for a couple of months, and I have read by now pretty much all of the articles in it that I am interested in reading. I turned tonight to the last few pages, with ads for an online course about King Arthur, a lovely half finished house for sale in the Roman countryside, and of course, the personal ads. The personal ads were so great, so undeniably sexinerdi, that I have decided to publish them all unedited for your edification, arousal and enjoyment. If any of my lovely readers are interested in replying to the ad and do not have a copy of the LRB on hand, please contact me for further info.

History doesn't relate the incident, but I won bronze for Festooning during the 1976 Olympics in Quebec. After that I moved to Brighton. Dizzy F, 59.

Une exploratrice? Innerly compulsed to be the sexiest bitch in the room? Occasional drag-queen (42) seeks lots of good sex with someone he really likes.

I enjoy a neatly ironed trouser and women who carry the scent of spicy chorizo. Simple man, simple needs. 40.

Warm, witty, wise, F academic (58), susceptible to spells of unsophisticated silliness, seeks male to appreciate the former and tolerate the latter, or vice versa. West Country and beyond.

My hobbies include leaving trails of crayons wherever Noam Chomsky gives a public lecture. To date I have placed 3785 crayons across the globe and raised more than $7 for charity. Beat that, fems to 55 with independent incomes and easy access to therapy.

I hate bad dreams, especially the ones with the giant tennis players. M, 41. Do you have bad dreams? Do they have giant tennis players? My sympathies.

Very attractive warm woman writer seeks good-looking man 50-62 with big heart and expansive mind for new plot. London.

Having an average score of 6.8 on the Slavoj Zizek scale of sexual magnetism (still regarded by scientists as the most accurate measure of human attractiveness), I have never had to place a personal ad. However, if I were to write one it would reference the colour green, a refusal to acknowledge the existence of gravity, and a firm belief in the theory that cuddling can solve all arguments except ones about carpets. M, 38.

Privately, I will always regard 1987 as my most successful year but publicly I would state that 2003 brought me more happiness than any other. The 16-year gap between these two points in my life represents roughly half of my overall achievements, while the square root of 97 is 9.591663046. None of these things are believed to be coincidental. F, 40.

Alone in Scotland, desperate for congenial company; interested in languages, theatre, modern music and architecture; loves good conversation, travel, adventure, birds, coastal walks and slow food. F, 69.

Shortly before my birth in 1973, I dreamt that life outside the womb would consist mainly of people with huge balloon-like heads communicating via complex systems of facial ticks and travelling the world on floating vehicles utilising the energy of laughter. Science has yet to prove me (dork F, 34) wrong.

I fear packing peanuts possibly more than any other man alive. But I never fail to weep at the simple beauty of swans makign love. Carl, 36.

Middlemen or woman needed to kiss away the pain from habitual user of violent mechanical contraptions (F). Gauche medical professionals need not apply.

I passed up an opportunity to attend the 2009 International Biscuit Convention in Warsaw to write this ad. And I really like biscuits. And conventions. Warsaw, not so much. Biscuit convention-loving, Warsaw indifferent man, 46, WLTM F to 50 with biscuit backing/ convention-hosting talent who preferably doesn't live in Warsaw.

Like faithful hound I will fetch your slippers and newspaper and follow you for walks on beaches on brisk autumn mornings. Of course, if I bite a small child I will have to be injected with sodium pentobarbital and destroyed. But let's just accentuate the positive for now. Slippers. Newspaper. Beaches. F, 32.

My dad helped me write this ad, just like he helped me with all my science projects and encouraged me to go to medical school. Thanks dad! Spoiled M, 54.

Women to 55 who enjoy cabbage will get along just fine with me! Cabbage-enjoying M, 55.

Here's a truth pill: If there was a fight between me and all the other advertisers in this column there would be no fight because we are all friends. Good luck to you all in our quest for love! Apart from the proceeding advertiser who is my sworn enemy and whom I have pledged to kill. M, 38.

42 year old clinically depressed transvestite and father of two seeks jaded but intellectual supermodels to share misery, bills and alcoholic blackouts. Costume desired but not essential. I am hugely attractive and overwhelmingly charismatic.

Mission Impossible? Sassy, bright, 60+ woman, Cotswolds, seeks friendly man for romance. Photo essential.

Xenobibliophile seeks other.

Small but perfectly formed ex-hack turned jurisprudential insurrectionist (ahem) seeks proper gent/unicorn with wit, charm and optimistic approach to Bakhtinian dialogics. (F, 29).

Schiele take a bow! Irritating Austrian art fanatic/ Eighties Morrissey fantasist (M, 43) would like your input (F to 50 or agents to 76) on campus-shenanigan novel he's been writing since sixth form. Sex is fine too. No Johnny Marrs/Brian Sewalls/ David Lodges.

When I was married, Saturday night was our date night. More often than not it became 'complain about the macrobiotic diet the doctor had me on' night. Anything was better than 're-enact scenes from Lord of the Flies' night. What I'd really like it to be is 'play Scrabble then snuggle' night. Just so long as it doesn't eventually become 'wear this leather gimp mask and don't let go of the chains' night. Nervous M, 54, WLTM woman who isn't mental or prone to candidiasis.

There are 289 species of octopus. I can, and will, name them all during the act of love. M, 58.

Many people carry scars from previous relationships. Not me: mine come from Chinese buffets. Clumsy, argumentative Dim Sum enthusiast (M, 45). Not good with children or animals. Or anything else that isn't a fork.

I placed this advert simply to toot my own horn, but the LRB refuse to let me use the font 'Impact'. As such I may not come across as bold and as dynamic as I originally intended, but let me assure you I am both bold and dynamic. (Perhaps readers could underline or highlight the words 'bold' and 'dynamic' themselves? Or else read this ad out loud and shout the words in a commanding voice. like that of a classically-trained actor? Possibly Brian Blessed?) Bold and dynamic man (49). Hull.

Carl at the Toyota dealership told me I should probably put an ad in somewhere. So here goes. M, 37.

In my bedroom, 'tension' is a word from the past. Although 'dermatitis' is very much of the moment. 'Exfoliate' is probably the choice for tomorrow. Allergy-suffering idiot (M, 40).

If we fail to hit it off on the first date, you will at least appreciate the brutal efficiency with which I let you know. No hidden meaning with often terrifying publishing F, 43, using Ming the merciless rather than Anna Wintour as her benchmark of forthrightness.

I have two great talents. One is writing superb adverts like this, the other is cage-free chicken farming. If either of those appear, please write.

My attempts to find a suitable lover in this column would have been far more successful but for the bureaucratic pettifoggery of the LRB advertising department, the dilatory shenanigans of the British postal service, and the rambunctiousness of my gall bladder. Foppish dandy and laparoscopy enthusiast (M, 56) WLTM matronly fems to 60 with own stamps and collection of surgical dressings. Leighton Buzzard.

If you can, and do, talk for hours and hours about your love of elderflower kombucha, refuse to eat anything containing wheat, endlessly refer to your travels to India at dinner parties, correct other people's pronunciation at every opportunity and insist on naming your children (all four of them, born in rapid succession) after members of the Bloomsbury Set, are 46, are cold and sexually hostile, you're either my PhD supervisor or my ex-wife. Good day to you both. The rest of you can try saying something nice my postbox.

M, 36, would like to see more reviews in this magazine centred around the 'gay cowboy' genre.

Compliant and trusting man, 43, WLTM F to 45 who doesn't insist on using the chemical names for obscure proteins as the safety word. Stoke-on-Trent.

Some may call this advert boring. I call it erotic art. Man, 57.

A graveyard in the dead of night. A spade. A curse. Then we turn the sods. Just a sneak peak into some of my dating habits, but we could start with dinner and a movie (something from the Dario Argento canon, perhaps?) Ghoulish M, 57.

As a frequent attendee at LRB Bookshop events, I spend most of my time wrestling with my own internal monologue jokes and summoning up the courage to articulate these before an audience. Naturally, by the time my anxieties have subsided, the shop has emptied and I'm once again alone. My sexual experiences mirror this. Let's hang out! M, 43.

Sulky M, 68, seeks acquiescent wife or punctual urologist. Preferably one in the same. No perverts/slackers.

Literary lads of the LRB! Know a girl who keeps in touch with all of her exes? Says she gets along with men better than women? Laughs about keeping up with their drinking? Recommends white beer with salmon rather than pinot noir? Well forget about her, she's a manipulative, cackling lush who's hated by female colleagues and the morose clutch of resigned eunuchs orbiting her Hoegaarden. Instead, date me. Post-ironic postfeminist who enjoys informed conversation, gender theory and ranking the ladette phenomenon alongside the Britisches Freikorps in retrospectives of the 20th century.

Ever been the only person in the room to take a fancy dress invite seriously? Answer me this; was it worse than attending the IAEA Christmas party as Dr. Manhattan? Failed Dr. Manhattan impresario. M. 64.

This zombie-in-contrary-context trend will halt. After which my Cavaliers-in-space vehicle will literally, literally take off.

This is not a love song. Well, maybe it is. F, mid 50s. interested and interesting, disposed to happiness, not adverse to adventure, seeks similar (F).

Hello again, post christmas post

I didn't post for a few days not because I was too busy with Christmas, but because I couldn't decide whether to say Merry Christmas, and have it be that kind of blog, or not say Merry Christmas, and have it be that kind of blog.

I hope it is better late than never: Merry Christmas!

So I think this video is totally brilliant. Watch it all, maybe a few minutes a day:


I wish I had brilliant commentary about the video, like "look at the Kafkaesque focus on insects," or "see the newly horizontal social structure in vertical communities" or even "Brits are superbarmy," but I don't. It is just great.